Frank Schätzing - Limit

‘I don’t know. What are you expecting?’

‘Why are you so interested? We hardly know each other.’

‘Because I was – still am – interested in you.’

‘Well, I don’t know. All I know is that there are directors who make wonderful films on minuscule budgets, against all the odds. Other people play music no one wants to listen to, apart from a few crazy types perhaps, but they’re unwavering in what they do, they would die for it. Some people can barely afford the hooch that keeps them writing, but if you happen to stumble upon something of theirs online and download it, you’re strangely moved by how humanity and unmarketability seem to come together, and it makes you realise that great emotions always originate in the small, the intimate, the desperate. As soon as an orchestra gets involved, it turns to pathos. If you look at it that way, even the most beautiful woman would be no match for the lousiest hooker. No luxury can give you such a feeling of being alive as getting plastered with the right people, or touching your broken nose when you’ve picked a fight with the wrong ones. I stay in the best hotels in the world, but being in a mouldy back room with someone who has a dream, in some neighbourhood no sensible person would go of their own accord, well, that moves me much more than flying to the Moon.’

Heidrun thought for a moment.

‘It’s lovely when you can afford to romanticise poverty,’ she commented.

‘I know what you mean. But that’s not what I’m doing. I don’t come from a poor background. I don’t have a message, I’m not fuelled by anger at society, I haven’t been sent up here by some political party or other. Perhaps that means I’m not committed enough, but it really doesn’t seem that way to me. We have a good time when we film Perry Rhodan , that’s for sure. I’m not about to turn down the money, either. And, recently, I’ve even started to enjoy being a nice guy, a rich nice guy who can fly to the Moon for free. I see all that and think, hey look, that’s little Finn. Then I meet women who want to be with me because they think I’m part of their life. Which is true, to some extent. I accompany them through this little, or, as far as I’m concerned, great life, I’m with them the whole time, in the cinema, in magazines, on the internet, in pictures. At night, when they lie awake, they entrust their secrets to me. During times of crisis in their lives, my films are important to them. They read interviews with me and after every second sentence they think: Wow, he understands me! He knows exactly what I’m about! Then when they meet me they’re convinced they’re standing there with a friend, a kindred spirit. They think they know me, but I don’t know them. I mean everything to them, but they don’t mean anything to me, not in the slightest. Just because my picture was hanging on their wall when they had their first orgasm, just because they may have been thinking about me, it doesn’t mean I was there. They’re not part of my life. There’s no connection between us.’ He paused. ‘And now tell me, what was it like when you first met Walo? What did you think? Oh, man, interesting, someone I don’t know. Who is he, I have to find out. Is that how it was?’

‘Yes, pretty much.’

‘And he thought the same. You see. The magic of the first impression. I, on the other hand, meet strangers labouring under the delusion that they know me. In order to completely let go of this life I would have to stop taking part in it, but it’s just too much fun. So I sing and dance along but I keep my distance.’

‘Well, that’s fame,’ said Heidrun. It didn’t sound mocking this time, more as if she was surprised by his list of banalities. But that’s exactly how things were. Banal. On the whole, there was nothing more banal than fame.

‘Yes’ he said. ‘It sure is.’

‘So we haven’t managed to come up with anything more original than what the doctor just said. Everyone’s looking for themselves in the unknown.’

He hesitated. Then he smiled his famous, shy smile.

‘Perhaps we’re looking for our soulmates.’

Heidrun’s violet eyes lingered on his, but she didn’t answer. They looked at each other, entangled in a strange, cocoon-like mood which excited O’Keefe as much as it unsettled him. He felt a twinge of awkwardness. It looked as though he was about to fall head over heels for a cumulative lack of melanin.

He jumped, almost relieved, as Julian clapped his hands.

‘Dear friends, I didn’t dare hope.’

Silence fell.

‘And I swear I didn’t ask him to. I merely suggested keeping a guitar handy, just in case ! And now he’s even brought his own along.’

Julian smiled around at them. His gaze wandered over to the man with the multicoloured eyes.

‘Back in ’69, when I had just turned three years old, he went to the movies and saw A Space Odyssey , which would later become my favourite film, and paid immediate tribute to its maker. Almost a quarter of a century later I had my own opportunity to honour Kubrick, modelling my first restaurant on the design of his space station, and I called it Oddity, in honour of the great artist we have with us here. Kubrick lived in Childwickbury Manor at the time, the estate near London that he hardly ever left. He also hated aeroplanes. I suspect that once he moved to the United Kingdom from New York he never put any more than a hop, skip and a jump between himself and English soil. And he was said to be very shy, so I never expected to see him in Oddity. But to my surprise, he turned up there one evening, when David was sitting at the bar too. We all talked, and I ended up blurting out the fact that I wanted to take them both to the Moon with me, that all they had to do was say yes and we’d be on our way. Kubrick laughed and said the lack of comfort alone would horrify him. He thought the whole thing was a joke of course. I had the presumption to claim that, by the turn of the millennium, I would have built a spaceship with all comforts and mod cons, of course without the slightest idea of how I would go about achieving such a thing. I had just turned twenty-six, was producing films, more bad ones than good, and was trying my hand at being an actor. I’d brought a new production of Fritz Lang’s Woman in the Moon to the big screen with David in the lead role, was winning favour with the critics and public alike, and was also just starting to feel my way in the field of gastronomy. Orley Enterprises was still very much in the distant future. I was, however, a passionate flyer and dreamed of the space travel that also fascinated Kubrick. So I finally managed to talk him and David into a bet: if I succeeded in building the promised spaceship by the year 2000, the two of them had to come on the flight. If not, I would finance one hundred per cent of Kubrick’s next film and David’s forthcoming album.’

Julian ran his fingers through his beard, transported back to the past.

‘Unfortunately, Stanley died before that could happen, and my life changed fundamentally after that evening. I only produce films as a sideline now. Orley Travel was born in a small travel bureau in Soho which I took over at the beginning of the nineties. I owned two airlines and bought an abandoned studio complex to work on the development of space vessels and space stations. With the foundation of Orley Space we pushed into the technology market. Some of the best brains from NASA and ESA worked for us, experts from Russia, Asia and India, engineers from Germany: because we paid higher salaries, created better research conditions, and were more enthusiastic, speedy and efficient than their old employers. By then, no one doubted that state space travel was in urgent need of some live-cell therapy from the private market, but I had set myself the goal of actually taking its place! I wanted to usher in the dawn of the true space era, without the hesitancy of the bureaucrats, the chronic lack of money and the dependence on political change. We offered prize money for young designers, had them develop rocket-propelled aircraft, and expanded our tourism range to sub-orbital flights. I’ve flown machines like that myself many times. And maybe it wasn’t yet a proper space flight, but it was a brilliant beginning. Everyone wanted to come! Space tourism promised astronomic yield, that is if we could succeed in reducing the start-up costs.’ He laughed softly. ‘Well, in spite of that I lost the bet initially. I didn’t make it by the year 2000. So I offered to settle my debt with David. But he didn’t want me to. All he said was: Keep your money and send me the ticket when it’s ready. The only thing I can say today is that his presence on the OSS is a great honour and makes me deeply happy. And whatever one could add about his greatness, his importance to our culture and the lease of life he has given to so many generations, his music can express that much better than I ever could. So now I’ll shut up and hand over to – Major Tom.’